


Three Unwise Men and a Maeby

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Arrested Development
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1642454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Megan</p>
    </blockquote>





	Three Unwise Men and a Maeby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Megan

 

 

As he was apt to do on holidays, birthdays, and any other occasion that traditionally involved family drawing together, Michael Bluth was making plans to be as far away from his family as possible.

This was a tradition for Michael. When he was ten, he hid in the backseat of his father's Rolls Royce to avoid Buster's cowboy-themed birthday party. As Buster shrieked that Lindsay had put a cactus in his cowboy hat, and Gob tried to make the pony disappear, Michael packed a boxed lunch of carrots, peanut butter and jelly, and a pudding cup, and secreted himself in the car. Unfortunately, his father George Sr. had conceived of the same plan (minus the lunch). Moreover, he had brought the newly divorced mother of one of the guests with him, which Michael discovered when they fell on top of him.

"We were... um... playing pony," his father told Michael, and shooed him back to the house where Gob had succeeded in making the pony's tail disappear. Their mother Lucille quieted the protesting pony wrangler with the simple expedient of handing him her credit card.

At fifteen, Michael arranged to spend his parents' wedding anniversary on a Boy Scout camping trip. He was quite content roasting a s'more as the pack leader told ghost stories. The tale of a spectral locomotive came with sound effects however, which turned out to be a legion of Bluth helicopters. They landed in the clearing upon which the scouts had, earlier in the day, fashioned a lookout tower of wood and Michael had topped with a flag made out of his spare shirt dyed with various crushed berries.

As the Bluth family and various hangers-on poured out of the helicopters, George Sr. yelled over the roar of the engines that a Bluth family party was not the same without all the Bluths. Michael wondered if he could recover his flag, flapping out from under the runner of the lead chopper. His hopes were dashed as the pony wrangler, inexplicably now a regular at all gatherings, knelt to examine the tattered bit of cloth, was stepped on by Gob hopping out of the door behind him, and fell face first against the metal. As the wrangler's nose bled onto helicopter and flag, Lucille began railing at George Sr. that they had forgotten to bring Buster.

Buster, it turned out, was missing due to a marathon game of what Gob liked to call "Hide & Hide." Two days later, a startled repairman who had been called in to investigate why the furnace was not working discovered Buster in the bowels of the heating unit.

Faced with the prospect of Christmas in the model home with Lindsay, Gob, Tobias, Maeby, Buster, Lucille, Uncle Oscar, and his fugitive father possibly hiding somewhere in the house, Michael reasoned that this was one year in which he and his son deserved to get away from it all. But George Michael, stellar in all other respects, seemed to view the extended group of freeloaders as a loving family unit. It was essential, Michael decided, that George Michael not know of the plans to flee the Bluth clan for Christmas, or he might inadvertently let the information slip.

Michael booked train tickets, knowing that his family would never suspect an escape via locomotive. Lucille considered trains passé, Buster was deathly afraid of them, and Gob had been banned from all domestic tracks by Amtrak. Michael also arranged a stay in a condominium up the coast, with a pre-assembled Christmas tree in the foyer and a troop of carolers available on call. It was going to be a perfect Christmas.

As it happened, George Michael also had decided that it was going to be a perfect Christmas. In particular, he wanted to surprise his father with a cozy, family holiday -- the kind his dad had always talked about, but they never seemed to manage. He wasn't entirely sure what a cozy, family holiday entailed however, so he went to the only other member of the family who had experienced the kind of cozy, family holiday his father craved.

He found his cousin in the sunken living room, eating popcorn and reading a book. "Maeby, how did you guys spend Christmas back in Boston?"

Maeby, immersed in _The Dummies Guide to Legal Emancipation for Teens_ , did not look up. "Mom generally spent it drunk. Dad used to spend it at a soup kitchen, until they kicked him out."

George Michael perched himself on the coffee table, and refrained from commenting that Maeby was dropping popcorn kernels behind the cushions of the model sofa. It tended to make her cranky. "They kicked out a guy volunteering at a soup kitchen?"

"He wasn't volunteering. He was researching his book _Indigents with Low Self-Esteem_ and got kicked out."

Actually, Tobias _had_ been researching his book, but he was asked to leave because some of the patrons of the soup kitchen misunderstood his questions about being absent from the bosom of their families and thought that he was hitting on them.

George Michael began, quite rightly, to have doubts about his cousin's exposure to cozy, family holidays. "Well, I want to do something nice for my dad for Christmas this year. A family thing."

"A party?" Maeby's eyes lit up. "That's a great idea. Mom's got the number for some strippers in her daybook."

In fact, if he chose to go that route George Michael already knew where to find strippers -- his choir director's group, Hot Cops, had worked for the Bluth family before. But he doubted that was what his father imagined as an appropriate accompaniment to a family holiday. "I wasn't really thinking of a party."

Maeby shrugged and turned back to her book.

"So how do I figure out what he wants for Christmas?" George Michael persevered.

"Duh," Maeby answered, rolling her eyes. "Spy on him."

Stealth was not one of George Michael's strengths, so he went in search of the person he knew was best at it, his grandfather. George Michael had, until his father discovered it, been hiding Pop-Pop in the attic of the model home. Though Michael told his son that George Sr. could no longer stay there, George Michael suspected that his father had merely taken over fugitive duty.

The attic smelled of new wood, old clothes, and chili dogs. "Pop-Pop?" George Michael called quietly. "Are you here?" When there was no answer, he risked turning on the overhead light.

"Too bright!" someone moaned, and George Michael quickly flipped the switch back to the off position.

"Sorry Pop-Pop," he said, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the dim light. In the corner, he could make out a figure sitting cross-legged.

"Mmm, poppy," came the reply. "Bliss is a whole field of poppies."

This puzzled George Michael, but not because he suspected that his grandfather would just as soon bulldoze a field of flowers and build a condominium in its place. No, he misheard "poppies" for "Pop-Pop" and suddenly imagined an endless landscape of George Srs, all wearing cowboy hats.

Fortunately for the sanity of George Michael's father, there was not a multitude of Georges in cowboy hats, neither in a field nor in the attic. Unfortunately for George Michael, there was not even one George Bluth in the attic. The man in the corner was not his grandfather. Rather, it was his grandfather's twin brother Oscar, who was hiding in the attic so he could meditate and stay as far away as possible from the love of his life, Lucille.

"I thought maybe you could help me," George Michael said to the dark, grandfather-identical blob in the corner. "I want to do something nice for my dad this year. A family thing."

"Ah, family." Oscar inhaled deeply, which was very deep indeed given the girth of his barrel chest. "There is nothing more important than family. Except perhaps land."

George Michael considered this doubtfully, but it was true that George Sr. always said a piece of property in hand was worth more than ten SEC commissioners in the bush. "Right. Anyway, I thought you might know what my dad would like."

"Your father?" In a way, George Michael had been fortunate to find the one member of the Bluth family who might have offered an opinion based on Michael's actual needs and wants, rather than a projection of his, her or its (depending on whether Maeby had dressed her mother that day) desires. On the other hand, Oscar was entirely focused on the fact that the woman he loved had turned into a likeable, affectionate helpmate, and he wanted nothing to do with her. So he was of no help whatsoever with George Michael's problem. "Oh, I don't have any idea what your father likes. I know Buster likes trains."

George Michael laughed nervously. "Actually, I think Buster hates trains." His mind was not on his Uncle Buster, however. It was true that Michael and George Sr. had their differences, but surely Pop-Pop knew something about his own son. Right?

This point was debatable -- Michael had never mentioned to his son the fact that George Sr. had given Michael a cigar cutter for his eighth birthday -- but it was absolutely true that Oscar had no insight to offer. "Maybe you should try seeing what he does. Who he sees. That should give you some idea."

"You mean spy on him?"

Oscar shrugged, a gesture that was entirely lost on George Michael given that he could not even see enough of Oscar to tell that Oscar was not George Sr. "That's such a harsh word. I prefer 'observe'."

So George Michael set out to 'observe' his father. This meant finding Michael first, and with this he had little luck. Eventually he came across Tobias in the kitchen. Maeby's father was experimenting with a new blue makeup to assist in his attempt to join the Blue Man Group.

"Have you seen my father?"

"In what sense?" Tobias stirred what looked like a blue smoothie. Apparently, Tobias also thought it resembled a blue smoothie, because he put his finger in the concoction and tentatively tasted it.

George Michael winced as Tobias smacked his lips at the resulting flavor explosion and lifted the glass to his mouth. "In the sense of... seeing him?"

"I think at this time of year, George Michael, as we pause to consider the blessings of our lives, that we also become cognizant of the fact that we have not taken the time to really see the people that are most important to us. In my case, this morning while I was investigating Lindsay's daybook to see if she really had a date tonight with Antonio Banderas, as she so cruelly insisted when I attempted to reconnect with her on an emotional and wardrobial level, I was struck by the realization that OHMYGOD--"

Tobias' face had turned blue. Or perhaps blue tinged with green, which was more accurately called aqua. Unfortunately this blue quality was not an exterior attribute of the makeup, but rather the effect of the half glass of blue concoction that Tobias had ingested and was now expelling into the sink.

George Michael made a hasty exit.

The stair truck that served as the family's primary mode of transportation was sitting in the circle drive in front of the house, so George Michael went to the garage to see if his father's bike was also in residence.

He found his father's bike. He also found his uncle Gob, lounging on top of a Bluth Development holiday display. He seemed to be fondling the Virgin Mary absently. "Uncle Gob!" George Michael exclaimed, startled. "What are you doing here?"

Gob shot into a sitting position, teetered, and fell to the garage floor, taking the display with him. The three wise men landed in a heap on top of him. "Nothing," Gob said, clawing his way out from under the trio. "Why? What have you heard?" An unfortunately placed sheep latched onto him before Gob finally made it to his feet, and Gob tried to kick it away.

George Michael edged toward the door. "Nothing. I was just looking for my dad."

Gob had managed to shake off the sheep, but not before the device that hid beneath his magician's sleeve finally let loose the spark of rather impressive colored smoke -- a trick that Gob had been trying to perfect for two weeks. The sheep's fake wool proved highly flammable, however, and quickly began smoldering.

"Haven't seen him," Gob managed, circling the flaming sheep warily. "I don't suppose you've got a fire extinguisher on you, kid?" He tore off his shirt and flapped it at the animal, rather like a matador before the bull. In response, the sheep fell forward and set Gob's shirt on fire.

"Should I call someone?"

"No!" Gob yelled, and waved off George Michael with the flaming shirt. A spark dropped down and landed in Baby Jesus' manger, which began smoking. "I've got it totally under control. Go."

George Michael hovered uncertainly.

"Go!" Gob screeched.

George Michael scrambled out the door and ran straight into his father, who had bicycle helmet in hand and was on his way to the garage. "Hey," George Michael stammered, his back against the door that separated them from Gob's holiday inferno. "I was looking for you."

"Hey buddy. What's up?" If Michael found anything strange in his son's casual terror, he gave no sign.

"I was trying to figure out what we should do for Christmas," George Michael admitted.

At the words, Michael's face fell. "Listen," he said, putting his hands on George Michael's shoulders. "I know you probably want to spend the holiday here with the family, but I really think--"

"No," George Michael cut him off, desperately. "I was thinking that what I really want for Christmas is for you and me to spend it together. Just us. In fact, we should go. Right now."

He leaned forward, away from the door that had already grown warm to the touch. Michael, mistaking George Michael's gesture for an attempt at a hug, pulled his son into his embrace. "That's great!" Michael was suddenly very glad he had booked those carolers. "You couldn't have given me a better Christmas present."

George Michael smiled, pleased by the obvious delight in his father's voice. The smile turned pained, as Michael continued to squeeze him tightly. "Can't breathe," he gasped.

Michael released him and stepped back quickly. He cuffed George Michael on the shoulder, beaming. Then he sniffed, maybe with emotion. It quickly turned to puzzlement. "Is that smoke?"

Gob's voice rang out from behind them. "I've got it completely under control, Michael!" There was a gasp, and then a little shriek. "This is just so typical. Michael always coming to the rescue. Always having to be the hero. Well let me tell you something Michael, this is one time when--" Gob's tirade came to an end in a fit of coughing.

"I'll go pack," George Michael suggested. "And Dad -- you might want to call the fire department."

Michael quickly wheeled and ran toward the phone in the kitchen.

It was hard to tell with Gob pounding on the door behind him, but George Michael could have sworn he heard his father mutter, as he went, something about a perfect Christmas.

George Michael wondered what the penalty was for setting fire to Baby Jesus.

 

 

 


End file.
